"No, no, it's fine." I choke out, still pouring syrup over the pancakes.
"You must like them sweet," Lexy observes.
"What? Oh…" More heat flushes my cheeks.
Lexy laughs, "Don't worry, there's more syrup in the pantry."
"I…" I don't know what to say.
"It's all good." She makes a show of pouring plenty of syrup over her pancakes. I don't want to, but I feel like I could like her.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. She was right, though; her pancakes are delicious. Next, I fix my coffee, with too much creamer and too much sugar, but hell. I deserve it.
"Did he not let you have sugar?"
I blink a few times at her question and feel a sting in my eyes. She points at my throat, which I saw in the mirror earlier. I pull my sweater up higher to hide it, but I realize it's too late anyway.
"No," I admit. "He didn't."
"Bastard." She nods, taking a sip of her own concoction, which I watched her fill with nearly as much creamer as I did, minus the sugar.
"These are good," I point at the pancakes.
"Yeah, the secret is vanilla extract. Lots and lots of it." She grins and winks.
The syrupy-sweet pancake feels heavy in my stomach, mixed with the sugary, creamy coffee, and I start to feel a bit nauseated. Slowly, I look around.
The kitchen follows the same refined, modern aesthetic of the bedroom, featuring rich wood cabinetry, marble counters, and high-end copper appliances that are seamlessly built in so as not to interrupt the clean lines. The lighting is soft but purposeful, casting a warm glow over a large center island that doubles as both prep space and a casual gathering spot. It’s not just beautiful, it’s homey.
Beyond the wide archway, the family room opens up. Deep leather couches, rich brown and broken in, face a massive stone fireplace. There’s a mantle with framed photographs, and a couple of old books stackedcarelessly, as if someone regularly sits there to read them. The whole space feels… lived in. Not staged. Not a cage.
My gaze catches on the wall of windows beyond, and my breath stills. Outside, a stretch of manicured green rolls down toward the tree line, where the forest I saw from upstairs stands dark and endless. The wind stirs the branches; the movement is hypnotic. Like earlier, it feels like an invitation to step out there, to keep walking until the shadows swallow me whole and the world I knew is gone forever.
"Did you cut your hair?" Lexy's voice brings me back.
Automatically, my hand flies to the ends, resting on my shoulder.
"It suits you. It just looks a bit… uneven." Her smile is non-judgmental, and I know she's right. I wasn't really paying attention when I cut strand after strand. "I can fix that for you." She offers.
I don't know how or why, but a few minutes later, we're back in the bathroom, where the floor is littered with the proof of my rebellion. Black strands, still wet, lay on the ground.
"Wow, your hair was long," Lexy says, picking one up and holding it out. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I have a feeling like she's reading too much in mine.
"Ah, here," she picks up the scissors where I left them. "Here, sit." She points at the vanity chair.
"I put myself through uni by working as a hairdresser," she continues, and now I detect a faint English accent in her voice. "It's been a while, but if you trust me…" she trails off.
I wave my hand, "Can't get any worse."
She laughs quietly and runs a brush through my hair. "Such beautiful hair. What do you think?" She holds up my hair so that it reaches just below my chin. I nod.
There is something relaxing about somebody playing with your hair. Even though I don't know who she is, I feel strangely calm around her. She doesn’t talk much, only when she moves my hair this way or that, asking for my approval.
Half an hour later, I stare at a different Sophia in the mirror. And I like her.
The long tresses are gone; no curtain of hair can hide the bruises on my throat. In their place is a chin-skimming bob that flips under just so, the ends feathered to catch the light. It sits heavy in the right way, full at the crown, so it looks expensive and easy all at once. When she swivels my head and the lights hit it, the black shines like lacquer; it moves with a neat, deliberate bounce instead of the wild, tired fall I’m used to.
She’s cut it so my face is framed, and my cheekbones finally have a stage. The new shape narrows my shoulders, makes my neck look longer, and gives my mouth a more luscious set. The absence of hair on my back is oddly intimate; I can feel the air on the soft skin belowmy ear, and it startles me with how vulnerable it is and, perversely, how powerful that vulnerability feels.
